


Another Panoply of Minifics!

by azephirin



Series: Ghosts [8]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Fast and the Furious (2001 2003 2006 2009), Harry Potter - Rowling, La Femme Nikita, Star Trek (2009), Supernatural, Twilight - Meyer
Genre: Age Difference, Children, Claustrophobia, Country Music, Crossover, Day Care, F/M, Gen, Genderswap, Hospital, Jukeboxes, Marriage, Physicians, Recovery, Stranger Sex, Trans Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Vermont, Vulcans, latina character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin





	Another Panoply of Minifics!

Stolen from [](http://medie.livejournal.com/profile)[**medie**](http://medie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://boosette.livejournal.com/profile)[**boosette**](http://boosette.livejournal.com/): Like [this meme](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/144714.html), except...

1\. Create two lists: one of original characters, one of canon characters.  
2\. Write a drabble for every prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers (first number from the first list, second number from the second list). Do NOT read the prompts before you do step 1.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Canon Characters** |  **Original Characters**  
---|---  
1)  | Hermione Granger | Rian Forestal ([Ghosts-verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/2586))  
2)  | Nyota Uhura | Chris Nicholson ([Charleston 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/2191))  
3)  | Leonard McCoy | Lissa Zyemla ([Charleston 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/2191))  
4)  | Spock | T'Niri (from [this](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/140917.html#cutid1))  
5)  | Christopher Pike | Bevin Forestal (from [Lady Lazarus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68394))  
6)  | James T. Kirk | Marin Rosenthal (from [Shadows into Demons](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22559/chapters/29365))  
7)  | Dominic Toretto | Mackenzie Markowitz (from [This Shelter in the Grove](http://archiveofourown.org/works/56157))  
8)  | Nymphadora Tonks | Ilana Trafford (from [The Hero of My Own Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/49606))  
9)  | Bella Swan | Alejandra Villar (from [Every Farthing of the Cost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/23298) and also a WIP focusing on her)  
10)  | Willow Rosenberg | The Jukebox (from [Abyssus Abyssum Invocat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22606) and [Cracked Stars Shining](http://archiveofourown.org/works/21206/chapters/27496))  
  
 

* * *

 

**1\. AU: 8 &amp; 6 (Nymphadora Tonks and Marin Rosenthal)**

"How are they even keeping her here?" I asked Birkoff in bed that night. "I mean, she could just rearrange herself, get some new clothes, and, oh, hey, there's Operations on his way out."

"Tracking device," Birkoff said. "They microchipped her during recruitment."

"Like she's a dog," I said, and Birkoff didn't argue.

The pictures from her living life showed a pink-haired girl with an infectious smile and laughing dark eyes. The woman I knew had hair that was mud-colored and flat, and I never saw her laugh.

 

* * *

 

**2\. Dark: 1 &amp; 5 (Hermione Granger and Bevin Forestal)**

Leonard's asleep in one chair and Bevin's in the other; she's wide awake, though, despite her better efforts to rest for a while. They've been offered better accomodations, and of course there's Rian's apartment, but her body is slowly surfacing from the healing trance the Nuufesot used, and she could wake up any time. Neither of them have said it out loud, but Bevin and Leonard aren't going to let her be alone when she does.

The room is dark and the corridors darkened; most patients are asleep and the overnight staff is a skeleton crew; it's quiet. Which is why Bevin hears the whispered conversation before its participants are in her line of sight.

"We'll most certainly be reprimanded!" A woman's voice, British accent.

"I'll make sure they don't kick us out of Starfleet." A man's voice, amused.

They pass the half-open door to Rian's room, and Bevin, peeking from underneath her eyelids, pretends to sleep. The woman is walking; the man is beside her in a hoverchair. Bevin's seen her before, young but serious in her science blue and lieutenant commander's stripes, on the turbolift to the spinal ward; right now, though, she's in civilian clothes, a long-sleeved short and jeans. Then Bevin realizes she's seen the man before, too, but not in person: Captain (soon to be Admiral, Leonard says) Christopher Pike, who was tortured by the Romulans and is undergoing aggressive treatment in the effort to regain the use of his legs.

The couple passes out of sight, but their voices don't fade; they must have come to a stop. "I'm so sick of this building, I'm about to throw a chair through a window and myself after it. I want to breathe some air that's not hospital air and eat some food that's not hospital food. And then, Hermione, I will return like a dutiful patient and let everybody lecture me, but right now I want to act like a normal person for a couple of hours." The amusement has given way to frustration, even bitterness.

"Christopher—" the young woman starts, then stops. "I know you hate this," she says after a moment.

"You don't know how much."

"I worry." The two words are almost an outburst, and Bevin knows what she means: knows what it's like to have no real reason for hope but to try anyway. Leonard is fastidious about patient confidentiality, but Bevin's been around the hospital enough that the other staff will drop pieces of gossip around her: how Leonard performed delicate, exacting spine surgery under battle conditions; how the slug had gotten so far up the captain's spine that they weren't sure he'd survive, never mind have the possibility of walking. "I worry even when you're under constant medical supervision, that something could go wrong. And if we're outside, away, and something happens, we won't be able to get help immediately. And now that my name's been bruited about and the entire Federation knows where I am, I've been getting these letters—his followers didn't all disappear, and I don't know that I could protect the two of us against a band of them—"

Bevin blinks—the only followers that Romulan had died with him on his ship.

"Sweetheart," Captain Pike says, and his voice is gentler now. "You've seen more apocalypses in twenty-five years than most people should see in a lifetime. We're not going far, and I've got some friends watching our route."

"I should have known there were others who would enable your dissolute habits," the young woman says, but she sounds neither surprised nor angry.

"Hermione," Captain Pike says, "when they spring me from this damn place, we're spending a week doing nothing but seeing just how dissolute my habits can be."

There's a pause, and Bevin wonders whether they're kissing—whether the young woman is kneeling, or whether the hoverchair levitates high enough to let Captain Pike bury his hands in her curls. Then Bevin feels guilty for imagining such a thing—she's already heard so much of a clearly private conversation. (On the other hand, they are having it in the middle of a hallway, however unoccupied it may be.)

"I look forward to that eventuality, Captain." The young woman's words are crisp and proper—but she sounds just the slightest bit out of breath.

"So do I." Captain Pike's voice is growing fainter—they're moving again. "You don't know how much," he adds, but this time lightly, without bitterness.

"Oh," Hermione replies, just before they're completely out of earshot, "I believe I have some idea."

 

* * *

 

**3\. Trapped: 10 &amp; 4 (Willow Rosenberg and T'Niri)**

"I hate turbolifts," Willow says mournfully. "Why couldn't I have just taken the stairs?"

The lift's only other occupant is a very properly dressed Vulcan woman, and Willow wishes she hadn't spoken—for sure, she's going to get some reply like, _because it would be illogical for someone of your weaker physiology to attempt to exert the stamina required to climb forty floors of stairs_.

"Because no being but an insane one would climb forty floors of stairs when there is a turbolift available," says the Vulcan woman, serenely.

Willow's sure that the expression on her face is incredulous and rude, but she can't help it.

The woman settles into a sitting position and takes a PADD out of her bag. "No doubt the maintenance systems have already alerted the management of the stalled turbolift, but I will locate and message him to be certain. And also my husband, because he dislikes the idea of his mate being in danger and will present himself and speak in a raised voice until the situation is resolved." The woman does all of this, then reads and nods at what is apparently a reply. "It may take a little bit longer because we are between floors. You appear nervous."

"I really don't like enclosed spaces," Willow admits.

The woman pats the space next to her, as if inviting Willow to come sit. Willow stares again.

"I dislike seeing other beings in pain or discomfort; therefore it is logical for me to attempt to distract you from your claustrophobia. Unless you have a PADD upon which you can engage in activities and distract yourself?"

Willow sighs. "I forgot it."

"Then come sit where you can see mine. I subscribe to a service called TMZ, which provides video feeds of renowned beings engaging in embarrassing behavior." The woman taps the PADD again. "Ah. Here we have the Federation president intoxicated and singing the words to a piece of twenty-first-century popular music entitled 'If U Seek Amy.' It promises to be most amusing. Would you like to view it with me?"

"I...didn't think TMZ was really a Vulcan thing," Willow says as she tentatively takes the spot next to the woman.

The Vulcan woman actually shrugs. "It is of no concern to me whether other members of my species do or do not enjoy this form of entertainment. I am T'Niri." She holds out a gloved hand.

Willow takes it, and they shake in the human fashion. "Willow Rosenberg," she says.

 

* * *

 

**4\. Amnesia: 3 &amp; 10 (Leonard McCoy and the jukebox)**

God has truly cursed him, because the damn jukebox won't quit with the Hank Williams. "Goddamn," he slurs to the brunette bartender next time she passes by. "Who the hell lined up all the Hank?" She really is pretty, with her long hair and dark eyes, but women might as well be plants these days for all McCoy cares. He could probably have joined a monastery instead of Starfleet and he wouldn't even really have noticed except for the Catholicism and lack of flying in space. Which, now that he thinks about it, actually sounds kind of pleasant.

"Sorry," the bartender says, though she doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "It kind of plays what it wants to."

As if to prove that statement, the jukebox launches into "Your Cheatin' Heart."

McCoy reaches for his phaser, but the bartender has his arm pinned to the bar and the phaser in her hand before he can even get his fingers around it. "How'd you do that?" he mutters.

"It helps to be sober."

The jukebox seems to change its mind, and a different song starts playing:

_Bubba shot the juke box last night  
Said it played a sad song it made him cry_

McCoy groans and drops his head onto the bar.

"Bones!" Jim exclaims, and suddenly there's an arm thrown around his shoulder.

"Where did you come from and why are you here?" McCoy's a little impressed with himself that he can manage a full sentence with so many words.

"I take you to New York to forget your troubles, and this is what you do?" Jim hauls him up and off the stool. "Come on, we're going back to the hotel and you're going to bed."

The pretty bartender gives McCoy's phaser to Jim. As they leave, the jukebox serenades them with "That's What Friends Are For."

McCoy really, really wishes he could shoot it.

**Note:** Yes, "[Bubba Shot the Jukebox](http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/chesnutt-mark/bubba-shot-the-jukebox-5451.html)" is a real song, performed by Mark Chesnutt.

* * *

 

**5\. H/C: 7 &amp; 1 (Dominic Toretto and Rian Forestal)**

Objectively, the doc is hot: tall and slender, with observant brown eyes. "What the hell did you do to yourself?" she asks after looking Dominic over.

"Flipped my car."

"You're lucky to be walking."

It's the wrong time to be thinking about this, but goddamn, does he love no-bullshit women.

"Can you fix me up?" he asks.

"Yes. Nothing's broken, no internal bleeding that I can tell—although I'd really rather get you to a hospital than do this here."

Dominic shakes his head. "No hospitals."

The doc sighs. "Yeah, that's what Mia said."

She gets her supplies and starts the process of patching him up. It occurs to Dominic that it's the middle of the day, and the doc's in street clothes, and it didn't seem like Mia had woken her up, like she was sleeping off a night shift, when she called. "How come you're not at work?" he asks.

"I'm taking some time off."

"Any particular reason?" If she lost her medical license or something, he'd really like to know that—but it's not like he has much choice, and anyway Mia wouldn't call somebody sketchy. (Unless somebody sketchy was the only person she could call—but, he reminds himself, not like he has much choice.)

"Personal reasons."

"You tell me your personal reasons," Dominic says, "and I'll tell you how I flipped my car."

She meets his eyes for a moment, as if evaluating; then she shrugs. "My husband was cheating on me," she says, "and probably had been since before we were married. I'm taking some time off to figure out whether I want to stay in Los Angeles, and whether I want to continue practicing medicine."

What Dominic blurts out is, "He cheated on **you**?"

The doc nods without looking up again.

"Man, what a fucking idiot."

This gets a laugh out of her. "Thank you. Now why don't you tell me your story."

 

* * *

 

**6\. Crackfic: 5 &amp; 2 (Christopher Pike and Chris Nicholson)**

For a moment, as they start the surgery, Chris imagines what Dean would say: _He walked onto a fucking enemy ship knowing the dude was probably going to kill him? Was he smoking crack?_ Dean would say that, Chris thinks, except Dean would have made the same decision himself.

 

* * *

 

**7\. Angst: 9 &amp; 3 (Bella Swan and Lissa Zyemla)**

"...And I decided to go up to La Push, but Edward had taken the engine out of my truck!"

Lissa has a policy of neutral nonreaction to most of the stories her customers tell—it's not her job to question the decisions they make—but this forces a raised eyebrow and a glance up from her measuring. "And you're still with this guy?"

The bride (_she's so **young**_, Lissa thinks, again) lets out an exasperated breath. "He's my fiancé."

"I have to say," Lissa tells her, "if my husband did that—which he wouldn't—I'd steal his car and go where I wanted to go, then dump his ass for being controlling and potentially abusive."

"Edward's not controlling!"

"You know him better than I do," Lissa says, "but that story doesn't exactly speak in his favor."

That night, as Sam pokes at the chicken they're cooking for dinner, Lissa says, "How would I react if I wanted to go somewhere and you took the engine out of my car to keep me from going?"

Sam pauses as if parsing the sentence, then replies, "Why would I do something like that?"

"Just hypothetically."

Sam gives her one of his famous _you are crazy, but I will answer the question as it was asked_ looks, and Lissa resists the temptation to throw something at his head. If she threw something at Sam's head every time he gives her the urge, he wouldn't have a head left, so Lissa restrains herself. Baba says this is a sign of a healthy relationship, and Lissa is inclined to agree.

"Well," Sam says, "if I were to bizarrely and inexplicably turn into some kind of giant douche and take the engine out of your car—which actually I wouldn't know how to do, so I'd have to get Dean to do it—you'd probably take my car instead, go wherever you wanted to go, then sue me for divorce on grounds of being a controlling asshat."

She doesn't say it enough, and Sam totally deserves it. Lissa takes the wooden spoon out of his hand, sets it on the counter, and wraps her arms around him. "Sam," she tells him, smiling and forcing herself to look him in the eye, "I love you."

"I love you too, Liss," he responds in his _mildly bewildered but going with it_ voice, which doesn't make Lissa want to throw things at his head. "Anything in particular bring this on?"

She reaches around him and turns off the burner. "The chicken's done. I'll tell you once we're sitting down."

 

* * *

 

**8\. Genderswap: 2 &amp; 8 (Nyota Uhura and Ilana Trafford)**

"Not that this hasn't been an interesting adventure in 'dick for a day'—or, you know, three days," Nyota says from the bottom bunk, "but I'll be happy to get my boobs back tomorrow."

Silence from the top bunk.

"Ilana?" Nyota says.

Her roommate whispers something so softly that even Nyota's expert ears can't pick it up.

"I couldn't hear you," Nyota tells her.

No reply. Nyota waits a few more moments until concern and bafflement overcome the desire not to intrude, and she gets out of bed.

Ilana is curled up in a tight ball. Nyota's only seen her like this once before: the night she broke ties with her family, rejecting once and for all their attempts to marry her off to impoverished nobility and confronting them about something else, something she refuses to talk about, though Nyota has her guesses and none of them are good.

Like she did that night, Nyota extends a tentative hand toward Ilana, but Ilana doesn't respond. Nyota didn't know what else to do then and she doesn't know what else to do now, so she climbs up onto the top bunk and sits, hoping she's far enough that Ilana doesn't feel trapped but close enough that Ilana can reach out if she wants to. "What's wrong?" Nyota asks, putting all the gentleness she can into her voice.

Ilana uncurls a little, enough to look at Nyota for a moment and then look away. She's not crying—she didn't the other time, either, and Nyota's not sure she ever does—but her strong features are twisted with misery. "What if I don't want to change back?" Ilana says in that same whisper. "What if I want to stay this way?"

Nyota blinks. "Like, as a guy?"

"Yeah," Ilana says, and her voice is a little stronger now—in anger or in challenge, or maybe both. "Like that."

"Then I'll have a guy for a roommate." Nyota's not sure whether this is the right thing to say, but Ilana uncurls a little bit more, enough to give Nyota room to stretch out against the wall. She does, and they lie facing each other. "How long have you wanted to...change?"

"My whole fucking life," Ilana spits out, and Nyota takes her—his?—hand. "But it wasn't the kind of thing I was going to go about telling people, especially not the way I grew up."

"I'm sorry I didn't make you feel like you could tell me," Nyota says.

"I'm telling you now," Ilana says, and he does.

 

* * *

 

**9\. Babyfic: 4 &amp; 7 (Spock and Mackenzie Markowitz)**

**Note:** Why does Spock apparently invite [babyfic](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/144714.html) for these memes?

With her flattened-straight blue hair, in absurdly high heels that have some kind of lacing down the back, she doesn't look like any mother Spock has ever seen. But they arrive to collect their children at the same time, and the blue-haired woman lifts her daughter into the air as the little girl shrieks with delight, and then they hug and nuzzle for several moments, as Nyota and Grayson do after a separation—as they will no doubt do when Spock arrives home with their son.

"Daddy!" Grayson yells when he sees Spock, and Spock picks him up and kisses his forehead—a gesture that would have been unthinkable in public during Spock's childhood, but experience has shown that Grayson believes Spock to be displeased with him if Spock does not greet him in this fashion. And so Spock does, though it feels terribly emotional, particularly outside their home. But Grayson radiates _daddy happy love warm going home mama_, and Spock considers his son's joy an acceptable trade for any embarrassment Spock may himself feel.

Spock hears the woman saying, "Is that your friend? Want to say good-bye?" and he sees that the little girl is waving at Grayson, who is waving back.

"Our children seem to have become acquainted," Spock says to the mother.

"Lalia's been talking about her friend at school, but I couldn't get a name. I'm going to guess this is him, though."

"This is Grayson, and I am Spock."

"Nice to meet you, Spock. I'm Mackenzie, and this is Lalia."

Nyota is reserved and this woman ebullient, but there is something about Mackenzie, he thinks, that Nyota would like. "Perhaps we might arrange for our children to visit the park this weekend," Spock says. "There are not many children in our neighborhood, and Grayson misses his companions on weekends."

"A play-date," Mackenzie says. "Lalia would love that. Ten o'clock Saturday?"

 

* * *

 

**10\. First time: 6 &amp; 9 (James T. Kirk and Alejandra Villar)**

The first time they met, Alejandra was ferocious, sleek and demanding, her long hair draping them both when she bent to kiss him. She kept him on his back the entire time—he ate her out, then she rode him, and then he ate her out again—and Kirk was more than happy to beg for more, which he did, at length, and she gave it to him.

It wasn't until later that he noticed the wedding ring, an engraved gold band.

"So is this revenge," he asked, "or he just can't lay the pipe right?"

She laughed. "Neither. He watched me pick you out, and I promised to report back. In great detail."

Kirk grinned at her. "I hope I get a good review."

"The critics were extremely pleased," she said, and stretched.

Usually he tried to leave first, but he lay in bed and watched her dress—rebraiding her hair, pulling on jeans and boots. With her clothes on, she was ordinary in many respects—pretty but not beautiful, undecorated by makeup or jewelry. But she'd walked up to him in that bar solitary and confident, and he'd been hers.

They exchanged comm codes, but Kirk's a realist. Still, he thought it was a shame that he wouldn't see her again.

+||+||+

 

The second time they meet, he's battered and bruised, exhausted from battle and worn thin from debriefings. He took a transport to Boston, and from there to Burlington, and then he walked the rest of the way.

Alejandra said they'd be expecting him, no matter what time he showed up, and apparently that was true. She and a guy about her age and height are sitting on lawn chairs at the turnoff to a dirt road. She is, unbelievably, knitting; the guy's picking out a tune on an acoustic guitar. She's wearing a thick sweater, a scarf, and hiking boots; the guy's got on more or less the same. She puts down her knitting and stands, smiling. "Jim," she says, and wraps her arms around him. For a moment he thinks her strength is the only thing keeping him upright.

She introduces them: "This is Oz, my husband. Oz, this is Jim Kirk."

They shake and make the appropriate noises. In other circumstances it might be weird that this guy has heard all about Kirk's performance in bed, but Kirk's definition of _weird_ has been recently and dramatically redefined.

"How are you?" Alejandra asks as they walk up the road.

"Tired," Kirk admits.

"Saving the world takes it out of you," Oz says. "But luckily you're just in time for lunch."


End file.
